The Sculptor Of Frog Lane - WIP2 - Some Redrafting

A few weeks ago I started to rework some of the material in TSOFL. I had previously shared first draft material, and much of that has been changed, but I want to leave it on the site as a record of progress.

The book currently sits at just under 57,000 words, and I would guess that this is around a quarter of the story (it's going to be a big book). I've made some revisions which are purely structural - what were 10 chapters are now 25, making each a bit more digestible and each focused on a narrower point in time. I've removed a lot of the "tell" narrative and replaced it with "show", and this significantly improves the quality of the first 20-or-so chapters. More work on this will be needed later, but it's a big step up.

One of the most significant narrative reworks is that Alice being a magician is introduced more clearly and earlier in the story. Alice's admission to the University of Bologna is now linked to an in-story character, rather than the Archbishop of Paris - who was never going to feature in this story in detail. And the story starts a few days back in time, with Alice's escape from brutal imprisonment in the dungeon of the medieval Castle Bouchard, before she flees to Italy. I've included the NEW chapter two below.

As always, thoughts and comments welcome here or on socials.

II – Wednesday, 17 July 1839
 
Where the skin had rubbed away from her thumb, the rust from the manacle formed a gritty paste with her blood. It was a new, fresh smell and it would attract the rats.

​For weeks she had been force-fed on potage laced with hallucinogens. When she was unable to hold her mind together, they allowed her to speak, and by the light of the lamp they brought into the dungeon they scribbled down every word she said. They covered the floor in straw – for they did not dare free her hands – and they cleaned away whatever dripped out of her. When she had said enough, the questions stopped, and the straw went unchanged. Her thrice-daily poisonings came to an end, and the perfect dark became timeless.

She grunted through the metal brace that held her jaw fixed in place and the rat by her feet retreated from her toes and squeaked. It did not run away far, and the faint skittering sounds revealed the presence of others. The rats were waiting.

She cried out in pain as the iron sliced her, as the pressure threatened to break her knuckles – but her right hand slithered through. The tight muscles of her back fought to regain their shape after weeks of being held above her head. She contorted and wailed in relief.

With her left arm still stretched out above her, she shook the circulation into the right. The other manacle was locked around her left wrist and was tighter than the right had been. The heavy chain which connected the two cuffs was looped on a hook driven into the stone wall and she strained and failed to make the small jump needed to lift the link a single inch.

Blood dripped down – hot and sticky – onto her bare feet. Furry bodies grazed her, and tiny mouths swiftly suckled on her skin. Alice screamed in incoherent rage, and the rats again drew back.

She swayed, and her blindness made her more unsteady. Her right hand found the damp, cold wall and she leaned against it as her body was wracked by a coughing spasm. There was nothing in her to throw up, so she wheezed, and her legs sagged under the unfamiliar weight of her body.

With her head pressed against the wall, her fingers searched in her dirty, matted hair for the buckles and catches that kept the brace in her mouth and as her fingers rediscovered their dexterity, she unfastened it and let it fall to the floor. She worked the muscles of her jaw, but her mouth was too dry to speak, and the skin of her lips and her tongue cracked as she moved.

Her name was Alice Black, and she was a true magician.

She had been born to the gift and schooled in its practice so that she could perform magic in all four forms – by movement and touch, by spoken word, by will alone, and by design. They had bound her hands to prevent gestures, they had addled her mind to sap her will, and they had robbed her of her voice.

Using her forefinger as a stylus and her thumb as an inkwell, from memory she painted the symbol on the wall in blood. The charm of unmaking burrowed into the stone and shook free the mortar, it gnawed at the forged iron, and the chain snapped away from the hook under its own weight before the manacle fell from her left wrist and shattered on the flagstones with their thin covering of mouldering straw.

She found her way across the cell to the door, which was hardwood and iron-studded. At her touch the wood contracted, splintered and fell out of the frame becoming a pile of kindling. She fumbled in the darkness of the hallway for a piece of wood that she could carry in one hand and lifted it above her head.

By will alone, she set the faintest ember to burn on the topmost part of the wood. It was more match than torch, but by this faint light she found her way up stairs until the total darkness of the underground was replaced by the blue-black of night and finally the blue-grey of moonlight.

Alice emerged into the silent courtyard of the Castle Bouchard. The structure was ancient – not a palace or a country house, but a medieval fortress the largest tower of which was artless as an ogre. In its high, narrow windows, flickering witchlight sent shafts of yellow into sky.

The night was warm, and the sweet smell of basswood trees carried on the air. Alice was naked and with the benefit of the breeze bringing contrasts, she could now smell the rancid stink of her body.

A tinkling sound, as of wine glasses met in a toast, came from the tower’s lit windows. She tensed and checked every door she could see, but there was no motion.

They had won, and they were celebrating their victory. In a stupor, Alice had surrendered her second-best secret: a product of science and magic that had taken her years of effort: the method of transforming lead into gold. When they had what they wanted, they stopped asking questions.

She raised the bucket from the old well and drank until she was sick, then drank again. Two carriages sat idle in the courtyard, with their horses and drivers elsewhere. Under the driver’s seat she found a long raincoat and draped it around her shoulders. It was only two miles to the nearest town, and she would make less noise walking than stealing a horse from the stable.

She had a little time. They would be drunk on wine and ambition tonight and might not notice her escape for days.

​And it would be at least a week before they would come to understand their gold would not benefit them. What they needed was the thing they had never thought to ask for: it was Alice Black’s best secret: how to turn lead into gold and stay alive.